Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf
And beckons toward the verge. Again the path
Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall;
And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,
Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the under-world; Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge,

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

OVER THE RIVER.

NANCY A. W. PRIEST.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who cross'd to the other side;

The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He cross'd in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet!

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly enter'd the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransom'd and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;

We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;

And, lo! they have pass'd from our yearning hearts, — They cross the stream and are gone for aye.

We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more

Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, hill, and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail;

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land. I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

ALICE CARY.

AMONG the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all. Not for its gnarl'd oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep;

In the lap of that dim old forest,

He lieth in peace asleep.

Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there, the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently cover'd his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

SANDALPHON.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

HAVE you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air,
Have you read it, the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumber'd, By Jacob was seen, as he slumber'd Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.
But, serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,

With eyes unimpassion'd and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening, breathless,

To sounds that ascend from below;

From the spirits on Earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore

In the fervour and passion of prayer ;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red;

And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know,

A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore:
Yet the old mediæval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.